


Better in Hotel Sheets

by objectlesson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Pining, X factor Tour era, baby boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 09:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12340182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: #9. Because you're in a hotel.---“Finding some random person to fuck just because I wanna make the best of this bed seems really exhausting,” Harry says. Which is a perfectly normal, acceptable thing to say to one’s best mate. “Wish you and I could just, like…fuck casually instead. Way less exhausting, and you wouldn’t have to sleep with Zayn in sexile,” he adds, which is not, under any circumstance, normal or acceptable.





	Better in Hotel Sheets

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my goodness. What a fun prompt and challenge, thank you to the moderators for putting it together! I am a big fan of hotels, and subsequently hotel sex, so this was both a blast and a breeze!
> 
> Little note: there's absolutely nothing wrong with being bicurious. Both of the boys are young and stupid in this story, and a far cry from being socially aware or politically correct. 
> 
> End
> 
> Enjoy!

—-

 

So far, the whole tour has been a string of posh venues and rubbish hotels. Louis didn’t even _know_ they were rubbish, though, because the mere act of staying in a hotel every night (with Harry) after playing a show (with Harry) feels impossibly luxurious in and of itself. It isn’t until they have rooms booked in a _proper_ hotel that he realizes the others were rubbish, at least in comparison. 

Sort of how he didn’t even realize he’d gotten overly comfortable playing house with Harry, pretending they were boyfriends by nature of spending every second side by side and rooming together, until all the things that made them obviously _not boyfriends_ got dragged into the light to be scrutinized. Things like sex, for example. 

This whole not-boyfriends situation had been sort of working for Louis up until tonight, if he didn’t think too hard about it. He got to sleep beside Harry, anyway; he got to walk around with his arm slung over his shoulder, he got to sit in his lap and tease him until he blushed that spectacular shade of pink, he got to stick his finger in his dimple and play with his hair whenever he wanted. They were best mates, after all, and they did those sorts of things. 

However, the night of the Very Posh Hotel Room, everything changes. Unexpectedly, _sex with Harry_ (which, much to Louis’s dismay, has never happened in spite of extensive, near-constant, and apparently meaningless flirtation) is suddenly a possibility. And Louis, who has a habit of making very bad decisions where Harry Styles is concerned, jumps on this possibility without thinking of the potentially catastrophic outcome of pretending to have casual, best-mates-with-benefits sex with the boy he has been absolutely _fucked up over_ and _irreparably in love with_ since X Factor Bootcamp. 

It’s the Very Posh Hotel Room’s fault entirely. This is what happens.

They get their key, traipse up to the room, throw open the door, and proceed to stand there with their jaws on the floor, staring. 

It’s a _gloriously fancy_ set up. There’s a glass-topped coffee table that holds a die-cut crystal bowl with _fruit_ in it, there are heavy red drapes pulled back from a floor-to-ceiling window, through which they can see all of London, glittering and sprawled out and magical, like something from Peter Pan. Louis feels like a tourist for a moment, he's so taken aback by the view, but this lasts only as long as it takes for him to notice the _massive flatscreen LCD TV_ hanging on the wall adjacent to the _similarly massive_ king-sized bed with its puffy white duvet looking for all the world like something royalty might sleep on. 

“Wow,” he gasps, immediately dumping all his luggage onto the floor (which is covered in a posh cream-coloured carpet that feels uneven under his Toms, it’s so thick and lovely) to go admire the TV, which he’s also just noticing is hooked up to a fucking Wii. “There’s a _gaming_ system in here? What the...we were staying in peasant hotels before, apparently!” 

Harry has already thrown everything aside so that he can catapult onto the bed. There he lies, in his too-big jeans and hoodie, rubbing his face into the tremendous heap of pillows like a happy puppy. “We must be real pop stars now,” he crows, voice muffled against goose down and cotton. “Look! No matter how wide I spread, I can’t even touch the sides. S’gonna be hard to steal your blankets now.” 

Louis doesn’t speak to the matter of stealing blankets because he secretly loves it when Harry robs him of the covers in the middle of the night. It gives him an excuse to cuddle up to his back, snake his arm around his middle, and pull him close. Harry’s the sort of lad who favours a cuddle over performing normative masculinity, so he never complains, even if he wakes up in the morning and Louis’s still tucked around him, face in his curls. It’s one of the very many confusing things that come along with being Harry’s best mate. It’s just so _easy_ to feel like they’re more. “That’s because you’re _short_. Have little arms...like a T-Rex,” Louis jokes, toeing off his shoes and depositing himself over one of the arms in question, which are far more Tarzan than T-Rex. Harry is long, gangly, and getting longer by the second it seems. 

“Ouch,” Harry winces, trying to wiggle out from under Louis’s dead weight. He can’t do it, so he just goes limp, allowing Louis to pin him to the mattress by his bicep until he rolls inward, nestling their bodies together. Harry reflexively wraps his arms around Louis then, nuzzling into his shoulder and sighing, “This is an ideal bed to get fucked in. Like, I bet you could do it in so many positions. Really utilize the space.” 

Louis’s cheeks get so hot that he lifts his face away from Harry’s hair, worried his blush is, like, a palpable thing, that Harry might catch fire. He doesn’t know _why_ Harry thinks that it’s okay to talk about getting fucked into spacious beds when they're snuggling like this. It must be because he views Louis in such an unsexualized, platonic, bro-pal sort of way that he doesn’t even _consider_ the undertones. Louis's mouth is dry, but he recovers quickly enough. “Yeah, but the sheets are so white, it would be easy to get cum stains all over ‘em. So there’s that.” 

“I like that,” Harry counters, because he’s absurd and Louis hates him at least half as much as he loves him. “S’like…you can see what you've done afterward, I guess. I sort of enjoy the idea of messing up a posh hotel bed. Always wanted to.” 

Louis wonders if he can live with the knowledge that Harry Styles has always wanted to mess up a posh hotel bed, much like the one they’ll be sharing tonight after the show, or if he’ll actually just _die_ , if his heart will stop from the sheer agony of possessing such information. “You should do it then,” he says conversationally, because Louis has a habit of making very bad decisions where Harry Styles is concerned. “See if you can pull a girl tonight at the afterparty. Make use of this thing.” 

Harry actually pulls away so that he can roll over and really _look_ at Louis. His eyes are narrowed as he says, “Or a guy,” like it’s a challenge. 

Louis swallows thickly and feels sick. “Yeah, or a guy,” he adds, shrugging, like it's no big deal at all that Harry recently told him he was bi-curious (yes, he actually used the word bi-curious, subsequently shattering Louis’s Very Gay heart into a million tiny pieces while somehow still infusing those pieces with an awful, futile, bitter sort of hope). 

“That sounds stupid,” Harry frowns, looking down at the bed with a critical line through his brow. “Where would you sleep?” 

Louis looks off into the distance, out the massive window, and into the mess of London. “I dunno...I guess with Zayn,” he answers idly, and he _feels_ Harry bristle, because for some inane reason that Louis has yet to pin down, Harry is _profoundly_ and _visibly_ jealous of Zayn. Maybe he thinks that Louis’s in danger of deciding he’d rather be Zayn’s best mate instead, since by some _miracle,_ Harry hasn’t yet realized that Louis is _obviously_ in love with him. 

“M’not gonna go try and pull some stranger just for _one night_ so I can fulfill my hotel-sex fantasy,” Harry declares, thumping back down onto the mattress with his arms crossed. “Specially not if you’re gonna go sleep with Zayn.” 

Louis actually laughs, encouraged to push now that Harry’s pushing back, being ridiculous, demonstrating his miraculous blind spot where Louis’s devotion is concerned. “I just don’t think you should give up on your ambitions when you’re a fit pop star now, and all the girls…and probably half the boys...in London wanna blow you,” he explains. And he isn’t sure _why_ he’s doing this, attempting to drive Harry away when it’s really the last thing in the world that he wants. But it _is_ a self-destructive habit he can’t shake, pushing Harry, pushing him _away_ , even. It’s like he wants to tell Harry to go fuck girls, wants to throw him at every fan who screams his name, just to watch him refuse it all and come back. It’s totally fucked up and very unhealthy, and Louis _knows_ that testing your best mate’s loyalty is an absolutely awful thing to do, but, well. He has a habit of making very bad decisions where Harry Styles is concerned. “This bed is begging for it, Haz. It wants to be used.” 

Harry pouts. “You’re teasing me,” he observes. “It’s mean.” 

“S’not mean, m’just trying to help you get _laid_ ,” Louis gripes, grabbing one of the very many pillows piled up behind him and lobbing it at Harry’s stupid, pretty face. He’s _so_ pretty, and Louis really wishes that he wasn’t such a weird, self-destructive person, that he could just take advantage of the fact that Harry would rather sleep with him tonight than utilize his newfound pop-star status to pull someone else. If for some reason he _does_ manage to fuck up so badly that Harry _does_ go out, he’ll regret it immensely. He’ll spend the entire night drunk-crying on Zayn’s shoulder, making up excuses for why he can’t handle it every time Harry does anything that isn't about him. _Quit pushing,_ he warns himself. _You want him here, you know that, so don’t ruin it. Stop while you’re ahead._

“Finding some random person to fuck just because I wanna make the best of this bed seems really exhausting,” Harry says. Which is a perfectly normal, acceptable thing to say to one’s best mate. “Wish you and I could just, like…fuck casually instead. Way less exhausting, and you wouldn’t have to sleep with Zayn in sexile,” he adds, which is not, under any circumstance, normal or acceptable. 

Louis fucking _chokes_. On his own spit, which is a difficult thing to do when one isn’t drinking water or laughing or gargling and is instead just sitting there. He starts hacking and sputtering for no reason, eyes streaming and throat tight. Harry actually has to pat his back. “Fuck,” he wheezes. “You can’t just...say shit like that.” 

“Sorry that the thought of casually fucking me is so repulsive that you literally vomited in your mouth,” Harry mutters self-deprecatingly. Louis suspects Harry’s cheeks are pink, and he would know for sure if he actually had the nerve to look up at him, but he might go into cardiac arrest if he looks at anything other than the white, white duvet right now. “I’ll never bring it up again.” 

_No_ , Louis thinks a little desperately, swallowing. “Harry, shut up,” he rasps. “I was just shocked. Like, obviously. That’s a shocking thing to, like…spring on someone.” 

“It was a joke,” Harry says unconvincingly. “Though it _would_ be convenient. I want to try stuff with a guy, and you’re gay and my best friend? Like, I can’t actually even really imagine just… _meeting some other guy_ to mess around with…god. M’sorry,” he tacks on, like he only _just_ realizes that everything he’s saying is absolutely _horrible_ for Louis to hear, even though he's only catching fragments of it because he’s stuck pitifully and repeatedly on the word _convenient_.

Convenience. It’s the last fucking thing Louis wants to motivate him and Harry hooking up. He wants to fuck Harry into this hotel bed because he _loves_ him, because he’s _everything_ , because Louis didn’t even _know_ before he met Harry that someone could make him feel so _good_ , just to be around, just to laugh with. Harry and his candy-pink lips and his soft, oily curls and his absurd, dorky sense of humor and ill-timed puns. Harry, who he's totally _mad_ at right now, but would still, in any universe, do _anything_ for. 

“I know…I know that it’s, like, _hard_ , and shit, to find guys to experiment with when you’re just figuring yourself out,” Louis manages to get out through a tight throat as he plays nervously with the fraying hem of his jeans, decidedly not looking Harry in the eye. “But you can’t _use_ me for that sort of thing,” he adds. And he should _leave_ it at that, watch Harry scramble to apologize because he knows he didn’t mean to be insensitive, Harry isn’t an insensitive boy--he’s the sweetest, most genuine person Louis has ever met. He’s _also_ a child and an idiot and probably doesn’t know how badly it hurts to hear all of that. 

Louis should shut this down immediately, but he has a habit of making very bad decisions where Harry Styles is concerned, so he doesn’t. He can’t just _let_ an opportunity to have casual sex with Harry slip away, even if he doesn’t _want_ casual sex with him, rather, he wants everything, kisses and commitment and, like….a fucking ring. But he’s human, he’s nineteen years old, and the boy he loves is just…offering it. To let him have it. So Louis does a very stupid thing and says, “I’ll tell you what. Go out tonight, to the afterparty. Try and find someone, and if there’s no one you like? Come back, and we can, like…mess up this bed and stain the sheets and whatnot.” 

His cheeks burn, and he hates himself. Harry is silent until he’s not, and even then he only manages to say, “You don’t have to do that for me if you aren’t interested.” 

Louis shakes his head, thinking, _it's not a matter of_ interest, _Harry, it’s a matter of whether or not I can fuck you without you realizing why I’m doing it. What I really feel. It’s a matter of whether or not I can survive it at all._ “I am, though,” he admits, just a fragment of the truth, trembling and raw. “Like…who knows when I’ll meet guys to mess around with either, yeah? M’not supposed to be talking about it, and I can’t guarantee he’d stay silent even if I _did_ find someone, and you’re…well, you’re my best mate, and you’re ridiculously fit, so,” he blushes as he says it, even though he tells Harry that he’s fit all the time, has taken it upon himself to obliterate any self-doubt or insecurity Harry might have ever had about his appearance since they became friends, the idea of Harry not knowing how wonderful he is making him sad. “S’not, like….a bad set up for me, if I’m honest.” 

Harry looks up, eyes bright and wet and the exact colour of a Heineken bottle, and if Louis knew what was good for him, he wouldn’t stare. Actually, he does know what’s good for him, he just…doesn’t care. Throwing himself into the red-rimmed, too-green burn of Harry’s hope is what he does instead. “Okay,” Harry says then, offering his hand, which Louis takes, palm burning. “It’s a deal.” 

—-

After the show, Louis immediately retires to the Very Posh Hotel Room that he and Harry Styles may or may not have sex in later and proceeds to combat his minor anxiety attack with drinks from the Very Posh Mini-Bar. He should not be drinking, he knows this, and he’s not going to get _drunk_ necessarily, but he needs to take the edge off his creeping panic, or else he’s going to combust into a flurry of nerves before Harry even gets back. And he would really prefer to see this night through to its inevitable outcome, whatever that might be.

Really, though, there’s nothing good, nothing at _all_ , really, that can make the waiting game any easier. Harry’s either getting cozy with some girl—or guy, though this is less likely—and using his dimples and cheeky white smile to woo her—or him—back to this hotel room and ultimately to the glorious, cushy bed that Louis’s currently sitting on amidst a pile of sheets and pillows, like a small boat lost at sea, _or_ he’s going to come back empty-handed, and Louis will have to fake his way through “casual” sex, even though he’ll probably be _crying,_ he loves Harry so much. 

He doesn’t know which is worse. Except that he does, and that’s having to sidle his way out of this room _knowing_ that Harry will be sharing it with someone else. Hanging onto Zayn’s neck all night, wordlessly bawling and drinking and feeling sorry for himself while he _knows_ that someone else is touching Harry’s skin, tangling undeserving fingers in his hair, kissing down the pale ripple of his lovely throat, where _Louis_ dreams of kissing, where _Louis_ is meant to me. He can pretend all he wants that he would choose a fate where Harry spends the night away from him, but he wouldn’t. Not ever. This is the way he is. He’d rather get a single, clumsy, one-off night in this hotel bed with Harry than let it slip away without ever getting to taste him, make him feel good, take him apart. Even if it doesn't mean the same thing to Harry, even if it’s just a game, a trial before an error, Louis still wants whatever little bit he can get because love has made him foolish.

He lets himself think about it a little, as he often does. Late at night or in the shower, in the morning when Harry’s snuggled into his arms so tightly and perfectly, when it’s easy to pretend that he’s _his_ , that this is something they both want. He thinks about Harry’s plush, pink lips, how pretty they look when they’re parted and gasping. He thinks about Harry’s meandering stories and absurd jokes and how he always laughs at himself before he delivers one. He thinks of his wobbly thighs and padded hips, how he’s still tender in places, layers of it over the muted musculature underneath, how Louis squeezes his waist and wonders how long it will be before Harry lengthens and hardens and loses his boyish, silly softness. The way his laugh is so loud whenever Louis pounces on him to tickle him into hysterics, how terrible and perfect his laugh is, the sort of sound Louis wishes he could weave into a blanket and curl up inside. He thinks about how he might get to _feel_ Harry tonight, cup his little white bum in his palms and squeeze, swallow his moans, _make him moan_ in the first place. _Fuck_. Louis fidgets, knowing that he shouldn’t get ahead of himself. That Harry might be coming back only to kick him out. 

So he nurses a tiny bottle of Crown Royal and waits. 

Surprisingly, and much to his combined horror and relief, he doesn’t have to wait very long. Harry pushes the door open after struggling with his key card for a good minute or so, during which Louis sits stock-still on the bed, heart in his throat, trying not to vomit. 

Finally, Harry stumbles in, looking frazzled, hair a mess and cheeks flushed. He’s alone, and Louis doesn’t know what to do or feel about that. 

“Are you drunk?!” Louis asks, because he’s going to be resentful if he held off on cleaning out the mini-bar while Harry got smashed. He can’t fuck drunk Harry; he can’t be Harry’s first gay experience if he’s _drunk_. He’s not even sure he can be Harry’s first gay experience at all. Everything is too hot, too confusing, with his cheeks burning and Harry so _bitable_ , standing there in the doorway looking stunned and stunning, his wreck of overgrown brown curls, his sloppy blazer half on, half off. 

“What? No!” Harry scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. “I just ran up the stairs. Had to extricate myself from this crowd of girls…god. It was delicate business. They were scary and persistent, and Liam wasn’t helping because he thought I wanted to take one back,” he explains, struggling out of his blazer properly and tossing it onto the sleek glass and chrome entertainment center across from the bed. 

Louis narrows his eyes, drawing his knees to his chest and peering at Harry, trying to read him. “Weren’t you… _supposed_ to bring a girl back? What about operation ‘christen this hotel room’?” he air quotes tentatively, and then he forgets how to speak entirely because Harry _looks_ at him, casts his fucking incandescently green eyes up at him, eyes that are wet and wide and dark and scared and defiant and hopeful all at once, and Louis doesn't know what to do with that, doesn't know what that _means_. 

“None of them were what I wanted,” Harry shrugs quietly. Then, he stands up straight, takes a deep breath, and pulls his white scoop-neck t-shirt over his head, leaving his hair even _more_ of a static-cling mess. Louis wants to smooth it with his palm, but he doesn’t remember how to move his body, so he's just sitting there, staring at Harry’s chest as though he hasn’t seen it thousands of times. “Are you still…?” Harry asks then, leaving it open-ended, full of promise. 

Louis manages to nod. “If you are.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything, he just nods, approaches the bed, and flops down onto it beside Louis, spreading out and stretching like a cat. “How do we even start?” he asks then, looking up with those imploring, _impossibly_ lovely eyes. 

“Do you want…well,” Louis starts, fidgeting and trying to keep his breathing even, smooth. Like this isn’t terrifying. Like this is okay. “Do you want it to be, like…a whole thing? Like, would you mind if I _kissed_ you, or—” 

“Please kiss me,” Harry begs, barely above a whisper. Interrupting Louis like this is important, like he _needs_ him to know it’s okay to do that, and Louis can’t breathe, he can’t move. The air is so charged that he feels like lightning could strike any moment; everything is tense and tight and alive, and Harry’s just _lying_ there, on his back with his bare chest heaving, perfect and pale, his pretty mouth ever so slightly parted and his eyes closed. Like he’s waiting, as Louis has been waiting. 

Louis tries not to think too much as he arranges himself, getting on his knees and straddling Harry's body like he’s done it a hundred times before when they’ve wrestled or rough-housed or had tickle-fights, so many excuses to touch him, to get close, to share his breath. And now, here he is, leaning into the huff of warm air as Harry exhales, tasting the buzz of alcohol and adrenaline on his usual flavour because Louis would be lying if he said that he hadn’t stolen tastes of Harry’s breath before, when they cuddle, when Harry laughs, when they spoon in bed and Harry drifts off to sleep first. Louis’s heart is beating so hard, but an inch from Harry's life-ending lips, he hesitates and asks, “Are you sure?” 

Harry’s eyes flutter open, only just, and he says, “Yes,” as if it’s the clearest thing in the world, as if it’s something he _wants_. And then he reaches up, cuffs one of his big, sweat-damp palms behind Louis’s neck, and pulls him down into the heat of his mouth. 

And _fuck_ , Jesus. He’s wet and slick and soft, soft, soft, his tongue slow and gentle as it prods its way experimentally into Louis’s mouth, like he’s unsure but can’t wait. Louis lets him in, wants to suck that uncertainty right out of him like snake venom from a bite wound. He wants to give him everything.

Louis forgets why he was scared of this because kissing Harry is so, so fucking easy. They fit together so _well_ , and Louis lets himself get lost in it, rolls them both over onto their sides so that he can palm down Harry’s back, into his hair, touch him all over while he snogs him breathless. “Okay?” he asks at one point because Harry thumbs over the stubble on his jaw and whimpers into Louis’s mouth like it’s something exciting, and Louis remembers that this is Harry’s first kiss with a boy, first _anything_ , and it sends a sudden surge of apprehension into his gut. 

“M’okay,” Harry assures him, licking the angle of Louis’s chin, which is very cute and very unexpected and sort of makes Louis want to cry. Harry kisses down his throat, sucking idly, getting his teeth into him a little without actually biting down. “You taste good,” he murmurs, voice low and raspy, fucked out even though they haven’t even started fucking yet. 

Louis crumples, pushing his face into Harry’s hair and inhaling, choking himself on the scent of everything he wants, wants for real and for good. _You do, too,_ he thinks, digging his nails into Harry’s shoulder, pulling him closer. _You taste good and feel good and smell good, and I want more than this. More than a half-drunk, one-off fuck because you don’t know how to pull boys proper yet. I want all of you, every night._ There’s nothing to say, though, nothing but, “Yeah?” because he doesn't quite believe any of this is happening, wants to hear Harry confirm things, prove them. 

“Yeah,” Harry answers, getting bolder as he sucks a mark onto Louis’s neck, fierce and biting. “Really good.” Louis lets himself be loose and unresisting as Harry pushes him onto his back, lets Harry take the lead even though it isn’t his inclination but because this is Harry’s first time, and he wants to let him explore, figure it out. 

Harry pins him to the bed and climbs on top of him, sitting up and rubbing his palms over Louis’s chest, his biceps, eyes wandering, hips shifting subtly. Louis is overwhelmed; Harry’s _touching_ him with such intention, these broad, trusting strokes that leave Louis shivering and breathless and awed. It’s easy to trick himself into thinking that Harry _likes_ him. _Loves_ him, even, with the way he’s staring, with the way his cock is so hard, straining against the seam of his trousers, big and obvious and so fucking _hot_. It burns so that Louis looks away, closes his eyes. Tries to remind himself what’s really happening here. 

“What do you like?” Harry asks, pushing up Louis’s shirt and thumbing over his nipples, hands trembling. “I want…wanna make you feel good. That’s what I want most.” 

“God,” Louis whines, throwing his head back and cursing, cock twitching in his pants under Harry’s shifting weight. “Erm,” he says, trying to think of something, _anything_ , that won’t give him away. _I like you_ , he thinks. _I like your mouth and your hands, I like your body. I want to come on you, rub it in, mark you in me, take you home, except that you_ are _my home, you’re my everything, Hazza, but I’m not yours, so I don’t know that to do_. “I like…I don’t know. I like most things.” 

Harry whimpers, grinding into Louis’s lap. “That doesn’t help me. Tell me what you want, whatever it is, and I’ll do it.” 

“Jesus, Harry,” Louis groans, so turned on and overwhelmed and frustrated that he’s worried about either coming too soon or crying, neither of which would be good news. He pushes Harry off, Harry, who’s loose and clumsy and goes easily, tipping. The mattress is so huge that even as Harry sprawls out sideways, none of him hangs off the edge, and _god,_ he looks so pretty surrounded in all that white, his flushed skin looking hot against cool cotton. Louis reverses their positions, sitting on Harry’s hips, bracketing him. “What am _I_ going to do with _you_?” he asks, and he means to tease, to flirt, but the words come out all wrong. Instead, he sounds stricken, even devastated. _What am I going to do, Harry?_ The prayer of a desperate man. 

“Whatever you want,” Harry whispers, writhing a little, cheeks so pink. “I’m so fucking turned on, god, Louis. You can do whatever you want.” 

Louis shakes his head, spreading his palms out over Harry’s chest so that he can feel the wild, thudding panic of his heartbeat. His skin is so absurdly soft, so soft that he feels _insane_ , and there’s just…no way. No fucking way that he can follow through with this. Harry’s looking up at him for direction, the wide willing black of his pupils like pits that Louis could fall into, if he hadn’t already fallen so long ago.

The thing is… Harry…Harry deserves better for his first time. He deserves honesty and communication and equality. He needs someone who’s on his level, someone who understands what he wants and what he’s going through to guide him, and Louis can’t be that guy. He just can’t. He’s in love, and he can’t use the convenient sprawl of London out the window or the expanse of this white bed in all of its Egyptian cotton glory as an excuse to take advantage. And that’s what this would be, given the circumstances. Taking advantage. 

So Louis sighs deeply, presses his open palm into the ribs over Harry’s thundering heart, and says, “I’m…m’so sorry, Haz, but I can’t do this.” 

Harry’s eyes flash with something like fear, the muscles in his face twitching reflexively. “What…is it…was I not doing a good job? Are you not attracted to me?” he asks then, and _fuck,_ god, _no_ , Louis’s heart breaks, his face wobbles, he feels it as he tilts his heads back because looking at the ceiling is so much easier right now. 

“No, s’not that,” he mumbles, blinking rapidly to keep the tears back. “It’s…fuck. I just...can’t. It’s complicated.” 

Harry’s quiet for a moment, and then he swallows thickly, tentatively reaching up to brush his fingers tenderly over Louis’s wrist. “That’s okay, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” he says. “But...can I at least know why?” 

Louis looks down, down at his hand on Harry’s skin, down at the wet hurt of Harry’s eyes blinking up at him. And he can’t…he can’t lie to Harry. Not now. He owes him honesty, he should have told him a long time ago, even, because it’s absurd that they’ve been rooming together and sleeping together and doing _everything_ together, all while Louis holds this terrible secret so close to his heart. It isn’t fair to Harry. 

So, with a deep, shuddering breath, Louis chews his bottom lip for a moment and tells him the truth. “Because I’m in love with you. I have been for a long time.” 

Harry’s breath catches, his eyes get wide, and it isn’t disgust or anger that Louis sees there, but it _is_ akin to shock, and Louis feels too awful to pursue it, so he dismounts Harry, drawing in on himself to sit on the edge of the bed, face buried in his hands. “God, Haz, m’so, so sorry. I should have told you. Shouldn’t have kissed you.” 

“What?!” Harry gasps, voice sounding so far away, perhaps underwater. Louis can _hear_ him, but he isn’t listening. It’s a voice but no words, nothing he can process through the roar of blood in his ears. “Yes you should have! Of course, you…,” he trails off, scrambling over to Louis and laying his hand on his shoulder. “Fuck, Lou, look at me,” he demands very quietly, the heat of his body so maddening up against Louis’s back, fingers gentle as they slide under the collar of Louis’s shirt, and _fuck_ , why would he do that?! 

Louis freezes, pulls away, and looks up from his palms. “M’sorry,” he says again, blindly, and then Harry kisses him. 

He’s too confused to kiss back, still fear-shaky, sick with regret, but Harry’s persistent, pulling Louis back by his shoulders, laying him out on his back, moving his lips, warm and swollen, against Louis’s until he relents, lets him in. Then Harry licks inside, groaning, hands all over Louis’s neck, threading up through his hair and pulling in greedy, aimless handfuls. 

“Ow,” Louis whines as Harry pulls away, not sure if he’s talking about his own ruined mouth, his pulled hair, or his aching solar plexus. “What’re you--”

“I love you so, so much, Louis,” Harry tells him then, voice broken and snagging over a gasp, a sob, something raw. “I was so scared to tell you. I had no idea…thought it would make things weird. Thought you’d be mad.” 

Louis blinks, heart still clenching in defense, even as Harry wipes away his own tears, staring down at Louis with wide eyes, a manic grin. “Why would I be mad?” he asks, voice so high and tinny and soft, afraid he might shatter this version of reality if he speaks any louder. “Even if…Harry...I could never be mad at you.” 

“I love you,” Harry says again, quiet, breakable, and Louis has to close his eyes. “I…tell me you love me back. I want to hear it again, need to know—”

“Fuck,” Louis whispers, hooking his arm around Harry’s neck and dragging him down into his arms, crushing him, rubbing his tear-sticky cheek into his messy hair. “I love you, Harry, m’so fucking in love with you,” he says, and then Harry’s shuddering against him, laugh-crying, mouth open and wet and breathless against Louis’s pulse. 

“God…how did you not _know_? I was so obvious tonight...kept thinking you were gonna call me on my bullshit…I didn’t even _pretend_ to try and find anyone else...was so, so, so shocked that you agreed to the idea at all,” Harry babbles between pressing messy, frantic kisses all over Louis’s neck, his collarbones, his cheeks. “Fuck, can you take your shirt off, please, can I…just wanna _see_ , touch you,” he begs, getting a hand up Louis’s sleeve. “Please.” 

Louis is shaking all over as he struggles with his shirt, finally getting it up over his head and off so that he can toss it aside. Harry’s all over him, searing and sloppy as he mouths down Louis’s throat, his sternum. Louis shivers, so _stunned_ , heart still achey and painful, as if it hasn’t quite caught up to what’s happening, doesn’t quite _believe_ it. “God,” he groans, scrubbing his hand through Harry's hair, gasping as Harry flicks his tongue over his nipple, making it draw tight. “You’re so _eager_. Not scared at all. Thought you were only _bi-curious,_ you prick,” he jokes, even as he’s sniffling in overwhelm. 

Harry peels back, eyes half-lidded and hazy with want, lips red and slick and swollen. “I said…I told you that because I thought you might offer to help me…show me. Because you’re older and gay and…fuck, I don’t know. I tried everything. I just wanted you to touch me,” Harry explains, blushing and squirming, the friction so _good_ on top of Louis’s parted thighs. “Sounds so desperate, now that I say it out loud,” Harry admits, dropping his eyes. “Was too scared to tell you outright, though. Thought it would make our friendship weird.” 

“Same, I know,” Louis agrees, reaching out and drawing his knuckles down Harry’s soft, fever-hot cheek. As he does it, Harry’s eyes flutter closed, and he tilts into the pressure. It’s something Louis has seen Harry do before, and all this time, he just thought it was how Harry _is_ , affectionate and cuddly, always seeking contact. But now he sees the way that Harry holds his breath, the tremble to his lashes as he soaks up the warmth, and it almost _hurts_ to see it in this new light, to see Harry broken open, exposed. “I…I was the same way. Just so scared of losing you.” 

“Louis,” Harry breathes, “you won't lose me. All I wanna do is be yours.” He turns his head and kisses the center of Louis’s palm, wet and messy. Louis instinctually bends his fingers to touch the perfect plush of Harry’s lips, gasping when Harry opens his mouth to suck in the index and middle digits, looking so filthy with his eyes shut, his tongue swirling, the obscene bulge in his cheek.

Harry goes deep, choking himself a little, and Louis can’t take it, has to grab a fistful of curls and tug Harry off, roll him over onto his back, and pin him like a butterfly on a corkboard, spreading him out amid all that white. “You’re so fucking hot,” he moans before he kisses him, tasting the salt of his own sweat on Harry’s tongue. “ _So_ fucking hot, Hazza, god, _my_ Hazza…think about you like this all the time. Under me.” 

“Oh, god, _Louis_ , I do, too, want you so bad, all the time,” Harry whines, rolling his hips, humping shamelessly against the thigh that Louis has just pushed up between his legs. Louis feels dizzy as he looks down at him, can hardly believe the shit he’s saying, that any of this is _real_. All of his dreams coming true. 

“You still wanna fuck in this bed? Mess up these pretty sheets?” Louis breathes in Harry’s ear, low and filthy because he’s not thinking about messing up the sheets, he’s thinking about messing up Harry’s pretty _skin_ , his pretty mouth. “I’ll just kiss you all night if you want, but—”

“No, god, god, _please_ , fuck me, do whatever you want,” Harry begs, squirming desperately, grinding his arse down into the bed before bucking back up against Louis. His cock is deliciously hard, and Louis can't just see it, he can _feel it_ , feel the heat bleeding through his trousers as he twitches. “I’ve been waiting for ages.” 

Louis bends down to kiss Harry, to shut him up, because all the things he’s saying _hurt_ , drive spikes of hunger into Louis’s gut so fiercely that he wants to sob, wants to hold Harry down and choke him on his cock, do so many things to him that he can hardly think straight. He pulls away with a wet sound, shaking his head and at least managing to ask, “What do you want most? What do you want _first_?” 

“Erm,” Harry murmurs, chewing his lip, head lolling on the mountain of pillows. “Everything…but…fuck. Think about you using me most. Putting me wherever you want and just using me…my mouth. Like, god. I think about blowing you, sucking on you, eating your come…fuck, so much.”

Louis buries his face in Harry’s neck and tries to slow his breathing. His cock is pulsing in his too-tight jeans, and he can’t clear his head worth a damn, can’t think past the haze of want and love that’s settled over him, making him blind. “You’re a lot,” he finally grits out. 

“Too much?” Harry asks anxiously, hands tightening on Louis’s forearms, and Louis lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. 

“Never. I just…I wanna make this good for you, but I’m, like…I love you so much, you feel so good, m’worried m’gonna come in my pants before I even get you proper undressed,” he explains, words soft and slurred against Harry’s skin. “And m’nervous,” he admits. “I’m not _that_ much more experienced than you.” 

“M’nervous, too,” Harry whispers back, trailing his fingers up Louis’s biceps and onto his scapulae, kneading into the taut muscle on either side of his spine, like he’s just feeling out the puzzle of him, touching simply to touch.

“Fuck,” Louis groans, grinding down into Harry’s stomach, letting him _feel_ how hard he is, how badly he wants him. “You want…you want me to show you what to do? Like…how to suck cock?” 

Harry’s hands go very still, his dick twitching noticeably and pulsing against Louis’s thigh. “Please,” he chokes out, voice rough, torn. “I want that so, so badly. Need it.” 

“Okay, Haz,” Louis sighs, kissing Harry deeply and thoroughly before he pulls back, leaving them both panting. “Erm, I guess I’ll get on my back,” he says, rolling over beside Harry and settling into the pillows, parting his thighs. “And you get between my legs…yeah. Good.” 

Harry settles, sitting on his heels with his legs folded beneath his arse, looking so eager and dutiful that Louis’s stomach plummets, making him glad that he's lying down because the feeling leaves him hot, dizzy. He palms his own cock through his jeans, squeezing a little, and Harry _stares_ , licking his lips and tilting incrementally closer. “Can I touch you?” he asks breathlessly, hazy eyes locked on Louis’s erection.

“Yeah, of course,” Louis rasps, watching as Harry reaches for him, covering his hand with his own, bigger one. They both gasp, and Harry’s turns into a sharp whine. 

“Oh, god, it’s so warm...can feel how warm you are,” Harry marvels, pushing Louis away so that he can rub his palm experimentally over his cock, thumbing over the seam where he's pressed tightest. “Want your skin...can I take these off?” he asks, and Louis nods, reaching down and unbuttoning while Harry gets the zipper, pushy and eager with his big, clumsy hands. 

Louis gets his jeans and pants down over his arse and lets Harry do the rest, and, _god_ , he’s so careful, really takes his time rolling them down Louis’s thighs, staring with wet eyes and a half-parted mouth at Louis’s cock, thick and red and resting on his stomach, flexing under Harry’s gaze. “Fuck,” he exhales, reverently palming up Louis’s legs, digging his thumbs into muscle. “You’re beautiful. Like, so fucking beautiful. M’sorry if that’s a weird thing to say.” 

“S’not weird, it’s… _fuck_ —,” Louis yelps, forgetting whatever he was about to say because Harry’s _touching_ him bare, rubbing his knuckles tentatively up the underside of his cock before wrapping his wide, warm palm around him. 

“Good?” Harry asks, sliding his fist up and down the length a few times with a loose fist, teasing without really meaning to tease, just _feeling_ Louis out before playing with the tip, getting his fingers wet in his precum. 

“Yeah, good, really good, Harry…fuck,” Louis whimpers. And it’s _so_ fucking good, even though Harry doesn’t know what he’s doing, isn’t doing much more than exploring with the hands that Louis has fantasized about for so long, careful, tender fingers and his breath held in his throat, like if he inhales he might break something. Harry’s just _playing_ with him, shifting the foreskin up the shaft, dipping his fingers into each new pulse of precum, gasping feebly. 

Louis lets him play for awhile, but it gets to be too much and not enough, making him thrust aimlessly into nothing and transfixing Harry, who appears as if he’s in a trance, forgot his aim. “Did you still wanna try, like, using your mouth?” Louis asks, and Harry’s gaze snaps up to his suddenly, eyes wide and stunned. 

“Yes, yes, _please_ ,” he stutters, sweeping his tongue over his lip in anticipation, stealing his hand back to lick Louis up from his fingers, and _fuck_ , just _seeing_ it is so much that Louis has to grab his cock and squeeze the base to stave himself off. “What do I do?” 

“Get on your stomach,” Louis orders in a shaky voice, watching, stricken as Harry obeys, arranging himself with his eyes dark and imploring. “Now, get your hand wet...spit on it,” and Harry licks his palm slowly, tongue so pink and wet and sloppy that Louis can almost _feel_ it already, imagine the heat, the slickness. “God, you’re so good, so fucking pretty,” he praises, and Harry preens, taking Louis’s cock in his hand again, wrapping his fingers around it greedily, putting on a bit of a show, like he can _tell_ that Louis’s watching. 

“Like this?” he asks. 

“Perfect,” Louis whispers, threading his fingers through Harry’s curls, petting him. 

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Harry admits, brow knit. He looks a little troubled, like he wants _so badly_ to do a good job, and Louis’s stomach seizes up, his heart clenching because there’s nothing, _nothing_ he could do that wouldn’t drive Louis crazy, wouldn’t make him come. He’s so close just from Harry’s sweet huff of breath against the crown, his wide eyes, his wet mouth that keeps getting wetter because Harry won’t stop licking his lips as he pumps Louis’s cock slow and awed. 

“I know...it’s okay. You’ll be perfect no matter what because I love you, and that…just that feels so good,” he explains, carding his fingers through Harry’s hair and pulling him closer. “You can get your mouth on me, if you want…just, keep your lips tight and watch your teeth.” 

Harry’s eyes slide shut as he fits his soft, swollen lips over the head of Louis’s cock, tongue swirling. As soon as he presses his tongue into the slit, he whimpers at the taste, the stretch. 

Louis arches his back, trying not to fuck into Harry’s mouth, even as his hips stutter and he slides deeper, making Harry groan, his hand tighten. It’s so fucking _good_ , searing hot and slick as Harry drools down him, bobbing his head to meet his fist, which is moving so fast that it’s making a delicious, filthy _snick_ sound. “ _God_ , god, Harry. That feels amazing.” 

Harry pulls off, breathless, cheeks flushed and wrecked. “Yeah?” he asks, like he’s _actually_ not sure, couldn't fucking _tell_ that Louis’s losing his mind, fisting in the sheets with his free hand to keep himself from choking Harry. 

He giggles, throwing his head back. “Yeah, so fucking good. Come back, want more…you’re perfect.” 

Harry beams as he scoots forward on his stomach and swallows Louis’s cock again, making a satisfied whining sound around it as he sucks, mouth so soft and hot. “Use your tongue to push up on the underside, so that it’s— _fuck_ , right, like that, so good angel,” Louis praises, just _letting_ the word fall out because this is _heaven_ , Harry feels like heaven. He hesitates, but Harry clearly _loves_ it, taking him deeper, breathing harshly through his nose, keeping his palm tight as he slides down, drooling over his knuckles. Louis watches even though he _knows_ it’s going to make him come faster; he can’t _help_ it, he needs to see, needs to _know_ that Harry’s loving this as much as he is, that he’s getting off on Louis’s cock filling his pretty mouth. 

And he definitely appears to be getting off on it, humping the bed and grinding his hips shamelessly, trousers riding down to reveal a few inches of his black briefs above the waistband, the soft dimples above his arse crack dewy with sweat. “Harry, you can get your kit off if you want...need to see you…want you to get this bed all messy like you wanted.” 

Harry groans around his cock, and the vibration of it sends heat needling up Louis’s spine, his stomach muscles clenching as his cock pulses in Harry’s sweet mouth. Harry pulls off in a froth of spit, propping himself up on an elbow so that he can struggle out of his trousers, clumsy and graceless. His cock bobs against his stomach, and Louis catches a glimpse of it before he settles back down, but _then_ he gets a full view of Harry’s _arse_ , white and perfect and clenching tight as he grinds his hips down in circles against the mattress again. Louis has seen Harry naked a thousand times before, even showered with him, but this is _different_ , this is his arse rhythmically clenching as he fucks the bed, this is Harry stripped and desperate and _sucking his cock_. “Your arse is so cute...love it...always have,” Louis babbles, tugging at Harry’s hair as he licks around the crown of his cock, pressing messy, reverent kisses down the underside. “Want to pull it apart, look at you, lick you out,” he admits, feeling brave because Harry _clearly_ wants him so fucking badly, is laving his tongue all over his cock like just _tasting_ it is so good, so satisfying. 

Harry chokes when he says it, burying his face in Louis’s thigh and groaning. “Fuck, really?” he asks, taking Louis’s cock in his hand and jerking him firmly and hungrily, like he can’t stand to not touch him in some way. “Because compared to your arse, it hardly exists. Never thought you'd even notice it.” 

“I notice all of you always, Harry, fuck,” Louis whimpers, wanting more, wanting to come in Harry’s perfect, tight slickness. “Get your mouth on me again...need you...m’close,” he slurs, and in seconds, Harry’s there, curling his fist around the length of him and sucking on the rest, lips and tongue sealed and tight, just how Louis told him. 

Harry gets lost in it, focused and determined, and Louis cannot fucking last like that. Everything happens in a blur, Harry’s hand working so fast and slick over his length, mouth stretched as he takes the rest in deep, rhythmic, throat-fucking sucks. Louis’s past the point of trying not to choke Harry because every time he does, Harry moans appreciatively, brow furrowed and hips locking as he fucks against the bed. He clearly wants it, so Louis stops holding back, letting himself push up into Harry’s mouth over and over again until the heat builds in his stomach, white hot and blinding and electric as he comes and Harry pops off, jacking him through it and letting his load land on his cheek, his mouth, his hair. 

Louis collapses, whining and gasping as Harry crawls up into his arms and kisses him hard, without even wiping the come off his face. It’s fucking filthy, and Louis _loves_ it, loves that he can smell himself, tangy and salty and sharp, all over Harry, musk and sweat and spit and sex-scent so strong that it’s dizzying. “Love you,” is the first thing he manages to get out, lips stinging as Harry leans down and bites him. “Love your mouth, love every bit of you.” 

“I love _you_ ,” Harry wheezes, voice _gone_ , and _fuck_ , it’s so _hot_ , Louis _did_ that. “Can’t believe you came on me...can’t believe you love me back,” he rasps, hands wandering all over Louis’s shoulders, his arms, up into his hair. Just idle, needy touch, Harry’s smile such a radiant thing that it burns Louis's eyes. “I didn't ever think…god. M’just so happy. Never thought I could be so happy.”

Louis slides his tingling palms down Harry’s sticky back to cup his bum, and it’s only then, when Harry arches his back to fit himself into his hands before grinding back down as Louis guides him, that he realizes Harry’s cock is all wet, slick and twitching and spent. “Fuck, did you come? With your mouth full?” 

“Erm, yes,” Harry mumbles, almost _shyly_ , and then Louis realizes he might be ashamed, that he might not _get_ how fucking _scorching hot_ that is, that he liked sucking Louis off so much that he fucking _came from it_. 

“Oh, _god_ , Hazza, I love that, I love that you loved it so much...lemme feel,” he demands, getting his own sweaty hand between them so that he can cup Harry’s cock, still big even as it shrinks back into his foreskin, hot and wet and sticky. “You are so lovely,” he marvels, loving the way Harry twitches and shudders in his arms, pushing his softening cock into Louis’s palm even though he’s already come. 

Harry smiles against his neck before kissing it, smoothing his tongue over Louis’s pulse sloppily. “And you,” he announces, voice reduced to a low rumble, “are the loveliest.” 

“Can’t believe you thought that the only way to get in my pants was to use this _hotel_ as an excuse,” Louis admonishes, pushing Harry off and nuzzling into his hair, peppering his cheek and temple with kisses, loving how he blushes under the attention. Harry grins and his dimple appears, so of course Louis has to kiss that, too. “Absolute tosser, making me sit up here with my broken heart and _wait_ for you to come back with someone else.” He thumbs a smear of his own come off Harry’s cheekbone before rubbing it into the sheets. 

Harry makes a face and squirms away, using Louis’s discarded pants to wipe the come from his face but not before _sniffing_ them not at all discreetly, eyes fluttering closed all greedy and obvious, which, naturally, makes _Louis_ blush. “Excuse me, hotels are a perfectly acceptable reason to have sex, in my opinion. Plus, there was never gonna be anyone else…fuck, Louis, there _hasn’t_ been anyone since I met you. Can’t believe you never noticed.” Then, Harry fishes Louis’s white-and-navy striped shirt from the rumpled duvet and pulls it on over his head. It’s too tight around the shoulders and rides up like a crop top, but he looks so silly and sexy all at once that Louis has to touch him, grab him by the arm, and pull him close. 

“I did too notice,” Louis grumbles, combing his fingers through Harry’s curls, loosely untangling them. “I just…I didn’t put it together. Thought you didn’t feel properly valued by the people who wanted to sleep with you since the X Factor or something. Thought you felt…I dunno. Objectified. Were being choosy.” 

“No, it was because all I did was wank over _you_. And spend every second sitting next to you and following you around and laughing at all your jokes and _staring at your mouth_ …Lou, why didn’t you figure it out?” Harry asks, all the while touching Louis’s chest, tracing patterns, threading his fingers through the sparse smattering of golden hair there. It feels so nice, so _natural_ , like something they’ve done before, something familiar. Louis sighs, so fucking happy that he must be glowing. 

“I dunno. Was too wrapped up in me own bullshit…worried you weren’t _really_ into guys, convinced you just thought of me as a best mate. Being so scared that _I was_ the obvious one and trying to hide it that I just…missed stuff,” he explains, thinking now of all the things that suddenly make sense. Harry’s diminished interest in pulling girls, Harry’s absurd and seemingly unfounded jealousy where Zayn is concerned. The fact that Harry likes to sleep in the same _bed_ every night, that he never pushes Louis away when he snuggles up to hold him. Louis would feel stupid if he weren’t so busy feeling relieved, lucky, validated. 

“Missed a lot. Even _Niall_ knows, and Niall has ADD,” Harry says, and Louis lurches with a sudden bark of laughter. 

He makes a face, squeezing Harry. “ _Niall_ knows? And what did he think about _me_ , then? Like, how I feel about you? He didn’t have any idea either?” 

“No, he did...he’s always telling me to tell you, to kiss you when we’re drunk, to do something. He thought you maybe liked me back but didn’t _know_ it yet. It was sort of his idea to tell you the bi-curious thing…which I since regret. Don’t give him a hard time about it,” Harry adds, tilting his head up and looking at Louis with his adorable, sleepy face on, eyes half-lidded and almost crossed. Louis loves him, can't help but kiss him right between those pretty eyes. “Sorry about that,” Harry whispers. “Was a stupid thing to lie about, and I shouldn't have said it…and now that I know how you feel, it seems extra awful.” 

“Don’t feel bad,” Louis tells him, shaking his head. “I get it...makes sense now. Like…at the time, it hurt, real badly, but now…you're here. You’re mine. I don’t even care. Fuck Niall,” he shrugs. 

“Noooo, Niall has been helpful! Like tonight, all I did was bother him during the entire afterparty for advice. I was a nervous wreck, just ask him...told him that you agreed to maybe fool around with me and then panicked about it for half an hour until I couldn’t take it anymore and just needed to come get you before you changed your mind. God, I was so scared,” Harry explains, getting clingy half-way through the story and throwing his arm around Louis to crush him fiercely, burying his face into the crease between his neck and his shoulder. “M’so, so glad things went this way instead.” 

“Hazza,” Louis whispers, hugging Harry back as tightly as he can. “I was so scared, too. Terrified, if’m honest. Like, I can’t even believe that was only a half-hour? Felt like forever. I wanted to follow through so, _so_ badly, wanted you more than anything, but I just…I couldn’t like that. Couldn’t just pretend it was a casual fuck when I ‘ve loved you so much for so long.” 

Harry whimpers, mashing his cheek into Louis’s chest. “How long?” he asks, voice cracking. 

Louis shakes his head, not even sure. _Forever,_ he thinks. _Since before I even knew you, somehow, I was yours. Made for you since the beginning of time._ “Sort of always,” is what he settles on, flushing, grateful that he’s hiding in Harry’s hair. “Bootcamp’s when I knew it for sure, though. I remember you did something so stupid…you were making up some dance routine, being this absolute _ham_ , cheesing and grinning and driving everyone _insane_ during rehearsal, and I just…I remember looking at you and thinking, _I love him_. And, like, I thought it, but it wasn't something _new,_ I was just…putting a word to it for myself.” 

Harry inhales raggedly around a sob, and Louis’s so lucky, so grateful, so _awed_. He kisses the top of Harry’s head, loving the dirty boy smell of him under the smoke and the sweat and the product. “Me, too,” he squeaks, as much as someone with a voice as low as Harry’s can squeak. “That long. Before, even. S’like…an eternal thing.” 

_An eternal thing_. Louis didn’t think he could crush Harry any tighter--his _arms_ are already aching--but he manages to tighten his grip, Harry’s breath huffing out in a tearful mess against him. “Exactly,” he hisses. “I love you, Harry,” is all he can say, then, and he’ll say it until there’s no more breath in his lungs, no more air in the world to make breath from. He’ll say it forever. 

“I love you,” Harry wheezes, sounding like he doesn’t mind at all that his lungs are so compressed. Louis loosens his arms a little, and Harry sighs a deep, satisfied sigh. “And thank _god_ you have, like…dignity and honour and stuff, and stopped me long enough to tell me. Because I don’t have any of that, I was just…I was gonna take whatever little bit I could get of you. No matter what.” 

“Well,” Louis exhales, thinking of the whole night ahead of them, so many more ways to wreck Harry, to wreck this posh, posh bed. “Good thing you have every bit of me, always.” 

___


End file.
